


Runaway

by TheShadowPanther



Category: Dragon Ball Z
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-16
Updated: 2009-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 03:21:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheShadowPanther/pseuds/TheShadowPanther
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He'd abandoned this place long ago."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Runaway

He wasn't sure what he was doing here. This place was so familiar to him, it was almost like coming back home, but he knew it wasn't home. Not anymore. He'd abandoned this place long ago.

He ran a hand over his shaved scalp wearily. He was suddenly missing the wild spikes that had adorned his head. It was in a fit of rebelliousness that he'd shaved them off. Since then, they had remained away, he having discovered the inconvenience growing them back was. He regretted the choice now, but there was nothing he could do.

How and why had Susan talked him into this? He admitted that his wife had him wrapped around her pinky finger, but surely he possessed better sense than to agree to this? It had happened long ago; why was it so important to stir the matter up when he had been perfectly happy with the situation as it was now?

He shook his head angrily. He knew why it was important. He just didn't particularly look _forward_ to it. He wanted to stay on top of the hill he occupied for forever, looking down upon the people he had used to call family.

Better yet, he wanted to go home and pretend this had never occurred, that he had never gotten the invitation. He ignored the part of him that called him a coward for such thoughts. Such a part continued to yell at him for remaining upon the hill long after it was time to move.

The party was coming to him enough as it was. He dropped his hand and attempted a smile for the large figure heading towards him. Even now he had to look up to see into his face, which was still as stern as ever.

"Hello, Piccolo," he greeted. He was startled when the Namekian responded to his recognition with his own salute.

"It's been a long time, Gohan. Welcome home."

He swallowed. He didn't know what he had been expecting, but it wasn't this. "Am I really welcome?" he asked. He was proud his voice didn't shake. The training for his job had done some wonders for him after all.

Now it was Piccolo's turn to be surprised. "You don't honestly think you aren't, do you?" he inquired, his sharp eyes assessing him. He met the gaze with a sense of familiarity, gratitude that at least his former mentor hadn't changed washing into him. Piccolo grunted, disapprovingly he imagined, and turned away. "Come on, kid, let's go meet the others."

It was a second longer than normal when he responded, "In a minute." A flash of color had captured his eye, and he turned his head as a miniature clone of his very own father raced happily through the throng. His brother was, he calculated, about fifteen years old now, and so had a legitimate interest in the strikingly attractive girl he chased.

"That's your brother," Piccolo's voice came to him. He tore his gaze away from the muscular kid weaving skillfully through the crowd with mixed feelings. "His name is Goten."

He nodded. "I know," he informed the Namekian. "Mom's letters found me a year ago." He wished he hadn't said that and waited for the inevitable question.

"Hm. Well then, do you know the name of his sister?"

He let loose the breath he'd held. "Chokiiro. She's his twin sister."

Piccolo nodded, seemingly satisfied. He turned again and walked away, his cape fluttering behind him in the unseen wind just as it always had. He smiled wryly and started after him down the hill, tucking his hands into his pockets. He managed to descend all the way down before he met any more of his family or friends, and even then it was only because Chokiiro was falling.

"Careful there," he said to his sister gently, his hand setting her to rights. He withdrew the limb and continued on for several steps before he stopped. Knowing that Chokiiro was looking at him strangely, he called out, "Mom."

All action froze. Even the birds dared not trill, fearful that they would break the formed ice and cause pandemonium. The gleefully busy woman before him turned, slowly, the terrible hope on her face evident even from where he stood. She faced him fully and stared at him, her eyes roving wildly. He examined her for the changes he saw: the short hair, the increase of wrinkles around her face, and the uncharacteristic purple headband holding her hair out of her face.

But when tears filled her eyes and she rushed toward him, he knew nothing had changed for the worse. He withstood her lunge and her tears into his shirt patiently; true to form, however, she began to shout at him in the midst of looking over him in motherly concern.

"WHY DIDN'T YOU ANSWER ANY OF MY LETTERS?" she screeched. Without letting him answer, she went on. "WHERE DID YOUR HAIR GO? DON'T TELL ME YOU CONTRACTED CANCER AND ALL OF YOUR HAIR FELL OUT! Oh, my baby, you're so tall, and so handsome!"

He smiled at his mother's antics. "I didn't answer your letters, Mother, because they only found me a year ago, you didn't include a return address for Mount Paoz, and I wasn't sure that you had an email address. No, my hair did not fall out, nor do I have cancer. I shaved it off, for reasons too numerous to mention. And yes, I'm fine," he told her. Sounds exploded around them as the ice patently thawed and what seemed like a barrage of humans charged toward him.

In reality, it was only Krillin, Bulma, Yamcha, Tien, and Chiaotzu, not to mention Dende. He shook hands with (or hugged) them all, an involuntary smile warming his countenance. The initial sense of displacement he'd had slowly began to cease as none of the fighters hated him, shouted at him, or ignored him. He did not count any of the younger generation of Earth's Special Forces in on this description, for it was untrue.

He sighed as Briefs Trunks stared at him accusingly, the violet eyes looking him over hotly, judgmentally. Goten himself merely blinked at him, as if he couldn't really believe that his brother had come after all. Chokiiro seemed to want to avoid him, though he knew always where she was because of her ki.

Nevertheless, the rest of his friends and family would not allow him to dwell on these reactions.

"Nice threads, bro," Krillin winked at him. He looked down at himself, surprised, to see the tawny raincoat he still wore. Through the lapels could be seen an Oxford blouse with a red tie and smart trousers with dress shoes, both in black. He smiled wryly at Krillin.

"Thanks. I had a meeting that ended at eleven o' clock last night and didn't have a chance to change before I hopped the plane here," he said. Yamcha looked interested, but it was Bulma who beat him to the query.

"What kind of a meeting?"

He rubbed his face wearily. "It was about sushi imports," he said absently. Within the confused silence that fell he shrugged and let his hand fall again. "I work for the Japanese government as a diplomat in England," his explanation extenuated. "I'm employed as more of a lower-level echelon than anyone of import, though," he smiled when he watched his mother's face light up.

"Still, I'm happy at that level," he admitted easily. Krillin chuckled and said, "Good. It's usually the higher-up ambassadors that get killed."

"Exactly," said he, pointing at him. He shook his head. "So far none of Mutahiko's retinue has been assassinated, but you never know."

"Mutahiko? Ambassador Mutahiko?" Yamcha exclaimed incredulously. He made a face and nodded. Impressed, Yamcha whistled long while a horrifyingly familiar figure made her way delicately into the throng.

"Krillin," the person called. "Marron needs a change of clothes. We're going to go back to Kame Island so that she can dry off; be back in a few."

Krillin nodded to the impassive Juuhachi and chuckled over the pre-teenaged girl Marron's dripping state. The blonde eleven-year-old, he guessed, pouted at the former monk as the Android dragged her away, but soon she was bouncing at Juuhachi's side again. He watched them go, his discomfort returning, then turned to Krillin.

"Are you married to her now?" he asked. Krillin nodded and added, "Marron's our daughter. Isn't she cute?"

Knowing it would be dangerous to disagree, he returned his friend's nod. Slyly, Tien asked, "Speaking of wives, I bet you at least have someone in your heart right now. Am I right?"

Groaning, he shook his head. "I should have known this would come up sooner or later," he complained, albeit with a smile. Sighing, he continued, "I do have someone. But Susan didn't want to come with me. She thought that she would be intruding on personal family time if she did. She doesn't understand that she _is_ family."

"Family? You're married!" Bulma screeched over the escalated murmurs of the rest of the Z-senshi.

"Eleven months now," he confessed. He had to hide his pleased smile when not only congratulations were offered, but also exclamations of outrage at her absence. I told you, he teased the redheaded beauty that was his wife. You _should_ be here.

He received no answer, nor did he expect one. Instead he skillfully redirected the conversation around to the other Z-senshi, questioning them on their changes. He found out that Krillin's black hair was actually natural, that the former monk had kept his head waxed when he was younger.

Vegeta and Bulma were officially married, with Trunks and Bra as their children. The erstwhile Saiyan Prince was, at the moment, still training every day, though it was on a less intense regimen after the Majin Buu conflict.

The Majin Buu events took little explaining, for he had felt even from Earth the struggle happening in the Otherworld and on the far away planet. He had contributed large amounts of ki when the Spirit Bomb had been created, and had rejoiced with the rest of Earth upon Buu's defeat. Nevertheless, he coaxed the details of the actual fight out of the Z-senshi as far as they knew them.

"You should talk to Vegeta and Goku. They were actually there when Goten, Chokiiro, and Trunks defeated him. They'll be able to tell you more," Yamcha told him.

He panicked slightly before it was explained that while Goku was still dead, he still paid occasional visits from the Otherworld. Bulma also enlightened him on that the Son twins and Trunks didn't like to talk about fighting Buu. He understood those feelings; they were part of the reason why he'd run away.

Yamcha himself was now the manager of his baseball team. He'd given up playing baseball since after a particularly severe ligament rupture, his doctors had recommended limited play. Since Yamcha had mostly been playing baseball to attract girls anyway, he settled for managing.

"We're not doing so great that I can boast about it," he grimaced. "Baseball seems to have declined in international popularity. Now the game that's hot is football. Who wants to play football?"

The gang sidetracked into a heated discussion of football versus baseball versus basketball. Happily not a part of this, he watched as Tien and Chiaotzu, football fans, bantered with Yamcha and Krillin, and Dende, who personally liked basketball. Bulma and his mother rolled their eyes and continued the earlier conversation with him.

Nothing really had changed for Son Chichi, except that Chokiiro and Goten were in high school. Bulma was still a creative genius, though lately she was leaving the business management to Trunks, described as "more than capable of running it, though he is a trifle irascible. I'm just hoping he'll settle down when he grows older and gets himself a girl."

His mother shot back with, "As long as it's not my daughter he gets." He raised his eyebrows incredulously, causing Bulma to utter, "Trunks has a crush on dear little Chokiiro. It's not a surprise, either, considering how pretty she is. I just think that simply because Trunks likes Chokiiro now, it doesn't mean that he'll ask her to marry him!"

"I got married to Goku at sixteen," his mother huffed. "And I don't regret the action, either. I just feel like I could have been a little more prepared before I created a new life with him!"

As the two mothers engaged in what sounded like a well-rehearsed argument, he drifted away. Suddenly before him was the violent-eyed Trunks with the frail looking Chokiiro hanging desperately onto his arms.

"Listen, you," Trunks yelled, "what makes you think that you can come back so casually and expect to be welcome? You left long ago and hurt everyone, _everyone_, and now you're standing here like you're not guilty! Well, I know better. Everyone else may have forgiven you, but I know better, and I'm going to crush you!"

"Trunks, no!" Chokiiro cried. Trunks shook her off, if with difficulty, and launched into the air. Before he could react to the attack, though, a blur of thunder thrust itself before him. He identified the blur as Goten, watched stoically as his younger brother resisted Trunks.

"STOP, TRUNKS!" the demi-Saiyan bellowed. Trunks halted just short of roundhouse kicking Goten and dropped to the ground. His purple hair had barely settled back down on his face when Trunks charged up against Goten again, his anger refusing to contain itself.

"If you feel that I have something to prove," he said, knowing that his face was set, "then undoubtedly I do. Just don't go crying home to Vegeta when I beat you bloody."

Trunks' face shone with triumph and he wrenched himself from Goten's grasp. "Let's do this then," he growled. "Not here, though. Over there." He looked where Trunks' finger pointed and discovered a meadow. The tall grass would prove to be an impediment to him, he thought, and rather thought that Trunks had chosen the spot for that purpose.

"Very well," he acquiesced. Trunks reminded him of Vegeta before Frieza died, all anger and no outlet. But the grass would be tough for him to fight in, too, unless he was used to sparring in a meadow. Notwithstanding this troubling thought, he found himself following Trunks, pulling off his duster with one hand and unloosening his tie with the other. The Saiyan genes are still strong, he mused. I probably have the same look right now as I did when I fought Cell.

He shied away from that thought automatically, instead focusing on the upcoming battle. He tossed the duster and tie into a pile far away enough from him and began rolling up his sleeves. He had the sudden thought that he was temporarily putting aside the life he'd acquired for himself with that pile; he stared as the world around him became smaller, more intimate, as if something were calling to him. An irritated grunt from Trunks broke his reverie; his mouth twisted as he continued his preparations.

Discarded shoes and socks and rolled up pants later, he was ready. Tien silently volunteered for the position of referee; at the drop of his hand, Trunks rushed forward. He waited until Trunks was halfway to him before he began his own charge at a steady pace less than Trunks' own. When Trunks would have thrust a fist into his face, he stabbed the solar plexus and smashed the other's face with his knee. Trunks staggered, his hands flying to his nose, as he snapped out his leg back behind him and struck him in the chin.

Trunks finally regained his senses and flipped backwards using the momentum of his attack, but he was there when Trunks finished the series and stomped him from behind.

"Urrgh!" the purple-haired demi-Saiyan snarled when he came up again and found him in his face. "Give me a break here already!"

"You think Cell would have given you a break?" he asked calmly through the barrage of attacks Trunks desperately blocked. "Or Buu, if you had fought him alone? I am merely giving you a taste of what I experienced with Cell. Perhaps it will prove to you what you want me to prove."

"I don't want you to prove that you're as tough as Cell!" Trunks shouted, beating him back. He swept aside the ki blast as a human would a bee (since the ki blast was a bit more dangerous than a fly, he reasoned distantly) and attacked again.

"What do you want then?" He ducked the responding jump kick and punched Trunks further into the air. He leaped after him and sent Trunks spiraling back down to Earth with a double-fist blow.

"Do you want me to prove that I'm a bad person, that I'm truly worth the anger you've been carrying around for years? Perhaps I am worth it—but then so are you," his voice carried down below him. When Trunks was close to landing, he rocketed towards the ground, his body streamlining to go as fast as possible without using exorbitant amounts of energy.

He seized Trunks just before the boy crashed into the ground. Holding the dazed and confused demi-Saiyan by the shirt, he said as calmly as if he were talking about the weather: "For you have done the same thing—killed a creature. You have withheld your feelings of shame, guilt, and fear in for so long, you no longer know yourself.

"Instead you have concentrated on the pain you felt from your parents and those around you and transformed it into your anger. You have fed this anger throughout the years, bloated it, preparing for this day when you would confront me with it and hopefully take me down."

With a split second's thought, he released the shirtfront he clasped so tightly. Was he clutching it for the lavender-haired Saiyan lying on the ground in front of him, or for him? He was no fool: These were his own feelings he described Trunks as having. He only hoped Trunks would get the message he was trying to convey.

"You are very much like your father in that regard."

Trunks' eyes widened; he saw the pupils dilate and contract in a fantastically delayed moment of time. Tears spilled from those orbs and wrenching sounds tore their way out of the shaking body occupying a scant one and a half meters of space at his feet.

His only reply was "That's it, boy. Let those feelings out." He added softly, under his breath, "I only wish I could do the same."

After a moment he turned and walked slowly away to the rest of the Z-senshi, allowing all of his energy to drain away back into his center. He paused, panting, by the lonely pile of clothing and could not remember when they had been discarded. Slowly, he picked them up and slung them over his arm, feeling again that sensation of two lives dancing with each other, one subsiding temporarily for the other, but returning again in full force when need be.

"Wow, Gohan. How long did it take for you to figure that out?" He couldn't see who had asked the question, but his answer was brief: "Forever." Ruefully he smiled as the inquisitor chuckled briefly; he felt a little of himself return from the past. A tap on his shoulder turned his face around to see Goten and Chokiiro standing timidly behind him.

Poking at the reason they stood behind him before they responded, he asked, "Aye?"

Goten cleared his throat loudly while Chokiiro, nervously it seemed, tucked her semi-spiky hair behind her ear. "Uh—we wanted to know—" Goten began.

"If the reason you left—" Chokiiro picked up automatically. Goten took over for her with "Was what you told Trunks. If so—"

"Why didn't you—"

"Tell someone about it?" the twins queried simultaneously, much to his amusement. Here was evidence before his very eyes of the link beyond links that so exasperated his mother she sometimes theatrically wished she had never given birth to them. Theatrically, he mused, because she never meant those acts of hers, that she loved her children with all of the strength of a tiger.

Which meant that she was very fierce with that love indeed, he chuckled to himself. Outwardly, he hummed. "Hmm," he responded, giving the appearance he was choosing his words with care. "Partly. You two and Trunks—"

He nodded cordially to the tear-smudged and bloody demi-Saiyan who had staggered up while he spoke. "You know very well how hard it is to talk about feelings, especially to people you care about. To admit that you think you're unclean, that you should have died, even though you know that without you people would be sad, is indefinitely harder than staring down a creature like Majin Buu.

"I ran away from those feelings, as you well know," he professed, hoping the divulgence came out casually. He was sure it did, but the Z-senshi members, for the most part, were unusually perceptive. As he predicted, he felt Bulma's ki spike, while comprehension permeated his mother's.

"You said that was part of the reason," Tien averred behind him. "What was the other part?"

He smiled wistfully. "When I found out that Mom was pregnant, all I could feel was resentment. Here I was, having just beaten Cell. I had fought Earth's enemies in one form or another since I was four. I felt like I deserved a little me time, a chance to really get to know myself as someone other than a fighter. I wanted my mom's attention to be on me and me alone; it was a luxury I had not been afforded since Radditz kidnapped me.

"Mom's pregnancy told me that she didn't care about me as much I thought, that she didn't love me. I resented my future sibling in that my mother's attention would be focused on something else for up to two years, by which time another enemy would very likely be on the horizon and I'd have to go off fighting again.

"This resentment, on top of the guilt I felt about killing my father, was too much. I couldn't take it. I was not foolish enough to kill myself, not after Dad had risked so much to preserve the life that inhabited me, but I needed to get away. So I did." He shrugged. "I can't say in all honesty that I regret my actions, but neither can I proclaim that I regret coming here and seeing you all. My only wish is that you can forgive me, someday, and we can go forward from there."

He smiled gently at his siblings and their best friend, at the memories of the past that had ceased to plague him long ago. He smiled for the future, the sometimes smooth, sometimes bumpy road full of pain, joy, and precious moments. He smiled, and his two lives merged together into one, the parts finally finding each other to make the whole.

Son Gohan had come home.

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2007.


End file.
